The Love Laws
by hewhoistomriddle
Summary: Harry wonders why things happened the way they did. Sweet drabble. HD Slash. Oneshot.


Inspired by: The God of Small Things is a lovely book. You should read it. I hope I do it justice.

This one-shot fic is dedicated to Eveleigh and EE. May your love last for seven lifetimes and beyond.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or The God of Small Things. Those belong to JK Rowling and Arundhati Roy.

The Love Laws

There comes a time in one's life where one needs to find an answer to why.

Why. Why. Why.

And his time has come.

He had been wandering for several days (weeks? Months? Years? Time had long ceased to matter.), aimless. Incoherent with his need to know why.

He had his ideas, of course, of why things happened. Things always happened, after all, whether we wanted them to or not.

In his case, well… things which he always wanted _not_ to happen, happened.

Is that why?

Was it because of wanting? Or not wanting?

He had read somewhere that the world would always conspire the help dreamers. It was the magic of the world, they said. But, as so sadly proven, the magic of the world was weak.

He had dreamed. Quite a lot. Big dreams. Little dreams. Good ones. Impossible ones. And nothing good happened out of it.

So why?

He had come here to know. To go back to where it all started. To retrace his steps and maybe, _just maybe_, see what went wrong.

A musty old room. Which smelled of old parchments, ancient wood, of the boredom of students, of life, of love, of death. And of death teaching.

It had been a long (or short) time ago. Dumbledore had just decided that Harry Potter was ready enough to learn the so-called powers Voldemort knew none of.

Though no one could possibly imagine the Dark Lord being ignorant of anything. Especially things that were supposed to be used against him, to defeat him. Surely he wouldn't be _that_ careless and not put up any defenses.

But anyway, Harry was made to learn the ever-so-powerful, wonderful, amazing, everlasting, victorious magic of…_love_.

But, as so expected from their zany headmaster, he was first forced to learn its history. Yes, love's history…to be taught by no one other than Binns.

Binns, notorious in the realm of _Boring. _

And so Harry was forced to learn endless stories of love and passion, most of which culminated in death. And though most of the tales were quite interesting and entirely sappily swoon-able, Harry always found them to resemble lullabies, playing in tune to Binns' orchestra.

"In the muggle religion's Adam and Eve…" The melody of monotony played.

"The tragic tale of Paris and Helen…" The tune of tediousness sang out.

"We see a pattern of love and its sub-patterns which…" Harry was already fast asleep.

He didn't really understand the lesson anyway.

It was after a session of "the Indian concept of love and karma" that Harry, wearily trudging his way to Gryffindor Tower, chanced upon a certain blond Draco Malfoy.

The Ice Prince of Slytherin. The Future Prized Death Eater. Mudblood tormentor. Potter Hater Extraordinaire.

And without his minions. It was a sight to see him alone, leaning oh-so-casually against the wall. It amazed him that Draco could still look aristocratic while inclined on the mossy wall, hair haphazardly swept by a nonexistent wind. Well, Draco looked aristocratic in anything, doing anything. It was a part of him.

"Scarhead," His smooth velvety voice flowed out, surprisingly without a tone of mocking. There might've even been humor there, had it not been so listless.

Harry could usually hold up his own in a verbal sparing with Malfoy, but tonight, he was tired. He had always been tired as of late. No doubt due to the extra work piled up by his ever-so-generous headmaster assisted by certain vindictive Potions Master.

"Shut it, Malfoy." An equal amount of resignation. "I can't fight you right now."

"And I thought Potter's didn't give up so easily," Draco smirked, but without malice. "For shame, Potter. What'll happen to the world if you acted to Voldemort that way?"

"You'd be happy then, wouldn't you? You'll then be able to torment mudbloods all you like." Harry retorted, too late to bite back his tongue.

Draco winced, hurt flooding his grey eyes. His shoulders slumped and he bowed his head in disgrace.

Harry, for some obscure reason, felt guilty. Guilty for insulting his archenemy where it actually hurt.

"I'm…sorry," he said lamely. He certainly did not expect the blond's reaction.

Draco laughed. Laughed as though he could never laugh again. As though he would never be able to express emotions after that moment. It was an odd laughter, a strange mix of fear, recklessness, bitterness, joy, awed disbelief…and hope?

Harry was getting totally bewildered and frankly, disturbed. He was in the middle of wondering whether to tell Dumbledore about Draco's "St. Mungo-able" insanity when the Slytherin sobered up.

"Why?" he asked with the same mix of emotion. "I started it, didn't I? Does your odd sense of heroism compel you to apologize everytime?"

Harry stared at him. Shocked for two reasons.

Draco was actually talking to him. With sense. Without malevolence.

Draco had mesmerizing eyes. especially when they were filled with the shielded despair.

"What's happened to you? Did Fred and George poison you with something because if they did, I'm going to kill them for not letting me in on it?" Harry joked, trying to restore order to the scene.

Order meant them hating each other's guts for every little reason.

But order wouldn't restore and the world had gone bonkers.

"Who knew you had a sarcastic tongue in you, Potter?" Draco mumbled. He drew himself to full height and said with practiced eloquence: "Iapologizefordisturbingwhenyouweresoobviouslybusy, no,makethatapologycountforeverythingIeverdidagainstyoufromthestart. There, I said it."

"Why?"

"Because I'm truly sorry. I don't want to fight anymore."

Harry was not so tired anymore.

_Who knew?_ Who knew then that Draco (Poor little rich boy. Cold Façade with hidden agony. Victim of Circumstance. Pawn of Fate) had just recently, recklessly flat-out refused to join Voldemort? That he had been disowned there and then and banished from his father's house (in all its cold magnificence) forever? That he had nowhere else to go but to a questionably sane old man who recommended him to apologize to Harry Potter?

Who knew that it was to be the beginning of a great friendship and something much, much more unexpected?

All the two boys (young men on the verge of life) knew then was that he was making amends with his life-long enemy. That they felt an underlying connection in their despondent, burdened lives.

One was to save the world from the hands of a madman. The Other to find greatness in helping destroy it.

Two Separate Roads.

It was what History had set upon them. An unshakable, nonnegotiable fate. No turning back. No returning to the womb to be born into a different life. No escape.

It was what their lives were meant for. What was expected of them. From Birth. 'Til Death.

No, they didn't know all these things at first. They only saw a vague glimpse of the future, a chanced view into the consequences of their choices and actions. They saw only shallow images. Freedom, happiness, sorrow, death perhaps.

But they didn't care about these things. They only cared for what was _now_, for the present, for present opportunities. They only cared for the things they could feel from each other's souls. What they could see in each other's eyes.

The promise of the future. Love. Madness. Hope. Infinite Joy.

All very sad things.

Why should the future be a burden even before it happens?

Unspoken. The words went unspoken. For to speak them was to acknowledge them. To acknowledge them would be to accept them.

Acceptance would be a different thing altogether.

Two Separate Roads cannot be united. It would go against the essence of things. Against the order of the world. Against Fate.

And Fate has her ways of punishment. God-awful punishment. Worse than anything physically encountered. A quiet sort of despair. A silent grief. A wracking guilt. An endless question.

In the future yet to come.

But for now, they silenced the words. They ignored it. Stored it in the back of their minds. Hid it. Defied it. And a variety of other more-or-less technically effective ways.

The result? They never got around to saying it. In words, that is.

But though unspoken, it manifested itself in actions. For it cannot be hidden. It cannot be defied. It cannot be controlled. It cannot be escaped, even by the strong and powerful. Sooner or later. Voldemort, you wait.

It shines like light through smudged, dirty windows, boarded up windows…heck, it even shines through even if there aren't any windows.

How? Magic, silly.

Why? I don't know, why? Does it even need to be asked?

Anyway, it showed itself in actions. In a concerned frown, a reassuring hand, a well-played game of quidditch. A quick reminder in potions not to add the dandelion juice too soon. A telling-off to a certain Divination teacher who relentlessly predicted a false death. A warm embrace, a protective stance, a friendly smile. A strained effort to not insult mudbloods.

Small actions. Small gestures. Small things of large value. Small things that are difficult to destroy as compared to big, acknowledged things. Though fragile still.

Because they could accept these things. Fate could also accept these things, they assumed.

But Fate decided otherwise. It had found something wrong in what they were doing.

Hence, the commotion in the Great Hall at breakfast, not long after owls swooped in to deliver papers with blaring headlines.

Death, it said. The death of the heir to a prominent family at the hands of the Dark Lord… blahblahblah...

He didn't feel the need to read more. It had ceased to matter, as everything had.

_He was…gone…_ leaving nothing where something used to be and where something should be. A Draco-shaped hole in his universe.

No one saw him rush out of the castle, running as though to escape reality. Running and running to finally dropping to his knees in despair. Not the quiet type of despair but rather the one with anguished sobs and crocodile tears. And he wondered:

_WHY?_

The tightness in his chest, the one which had hovered ever since he knew of the prophecy, had gone. It wasn't a gradual change, no. It had snapped.

It had snapped with the need to know the answers to why.

Why was he here now, looking for answers among memories? Memories buried and nearly forgotten.

Why had Fate and the World, in union for the first time for god-knows-when, turned against them?

Why had beautiful, wonderful things had to be destroyed?

Why were _they_ destroyed?

Why did _he_ have to die?

Why did they limit it to the small things?

Why did they not shout it to the rooftops when they still had the chance?

Why were they afraid at all?

Was it an inborn instinct?

Was it because it defied Order?

Was it wrong? (He refused to believe that something so beautiful and _right_ was wrong)

Did it have something to do with wanting more than what had been fated?

Maybe yes. Maybe no.

He looked down at the piece of parchment, one he had used almost a lifetime ago. A lifetime that included a certain blond git.

He laughed out loud, echoing the mixed-emotion-laugh Draco had.

The answers to his why's. They had been there all along, waiting to penetrate his numb brain.

The Indian concept of Love and Karma, the same lesson he had been struggling with before Draco interrupted him and made him forget.

Love. The Old magic. The one which was more powerful than the magic of the World. The one which laid down the rules of Fate and Order.

_The Love Laws. _

The laws which laid down the rules for WHO should be loved. HOW. And HOW MUCH.

It was all so very _very_ wrong.

That's what fate had held against them. The reason why _he_ died.

The same magic laws which allowed him to conquer Voldemort had destroyed his Draco.

Would he have abolished them if he had the chance? Let the rest of the world suffer but keep Draco alive?

Maybe Yes. Maybe No.

One thing's for sure, he understood Binns' lesson now.

END

Confused? Good. :)

I'm sorry. I was just in the mood to write something sappily tragic.


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